Hansford: A Tale of Bacon's Rebellion Part 34

"For G.o.d's sake, be silent. I acknowledge I have done wrong; but I will explain. Remember Hansford's life is in your hands. Come, now, dear Virginia, sit you down, I will save him."

The proud expression of scorn died away from the curled lips of the girl, and interest in her lover's fate again took entire possession of her heart. She paused and listened. The wily Jesuit had again conquered, and He who rules the universe with such mysterious justice, had permitted evil once more to triumph over innocence.

"Yes," repeated Bernard, regaining his composure with his success; "I will save him. I mistook your character, Miss Temple. I had thought you the simple-hearted girl, who for the sake of her lover's life would sell her heart to his preserver. I now recognize in you the high-spirited woman, who, conscious of right, would meet her own despair in its defence. Alas! in thus losing you for ever, I have just found you possessed of qualities which make you doubly worthy to be won. But I resign you to him whom you have chosen, and in my admiration for the woman, I have almost lost my hatred for the man. For your sake, Miss Temple, Major Hansford shall not want my warm interposition with the Governor in his behalf. Let my reward be your esteem or your contempt, it is still my duty thus to atone for the wound which I have unfortunately inflicted on your feelings. You will excuse and respect my wish to end this painful interview."

And so he left the room, and Virginia once more alone, gave vent to her emotions so long suppressed, in a flood of bitter tears.

"Well, Holliday," said Bernard, as he met that worthy in the hall, "I hope you have been more fortunate with the red heifer than I with the white hind-what says Mamalis?"

"The fact is, Cap'n, that same heifer is about as troublesome a three year old as I ever had the breaking on. She seemed bent on hooking me."

"Did you not make use of the talisman I told you of?" asked Bernard.

"Well, I don't know what you call a tell-us-man," said Holliday, "but I told her that you said she must remember Backinhead, and I'll warrant it was tell-us-woman soon enough. Bless me, if she didn't most turn white, for all her red skin, and she got the trimbles so that I began to think she was going to have the high-strikes-and so says she at last; says she, in kind of choking voice like, 'Well, tell him I will meet him under the oak tree, as he wishes.'"

"Very well," said Bernard, "we will succeed yet, and then your hundred pounds are made-my share is yours already if you be but faithful to me-I am convinced he has been here," he continued, musing, and half unconscious of Holliday's presence. "The hopeful interest that Virginia feels, her knowledge of the fact that he still lives and is at large, and the apprehensions which mingle with her hopes, all convince me that I'm on the right track. Well, I'll spoil a pretty love affair yet, before it approaches its consummation. Fine girl, too, and a pity to victimize her. Bless me, how majestic she looked; with what a queen-like scorn she treated me, the cold, insensate intriguer, as they call me. I begin to love her almost as much as I love her land-but, beware, Alfred Bernard, love might betray you. My game is a bold and desperate one, but the stake for which I play repays the risk. By G.o.d, I'll have her yet; she shall learn to bow her proud head, and to love me too-and then the fair fields of Windsor Hall will not be less fertile for the price which I pay for them in a rival's blood-and such a rival. He scorned and defied me when the overtures of peace were extended to him; let him look to it, that in rejecting the olive, he has not planted the cypress in its stead. Thus revenge is united with policy in the attainment of my object, and-What are you staring at, you gaping idiot?" he cried, seeing the big, pewter coloured eyes of Holliday fixed upon him in mute astonishment.

"Why, Cap'n, damme if I don't believe you are talking in your sleep with your eyes open."

"And what did you hear me say, knave?"

"Oh, nothing that will ever go the farther for my hearing it. It's all one to me whether you're working for your country or yourself in this matter, so long as my pretty pounds are none the less heavy and safe."

"I'm working for both, you fool," returned Bernard. "Did you ever know a general or a patriot who did not seek to serve himself as well as his country?"

"Well, no," retorted the soldier, "for what the world calls honour, and what the rough soldier calls money, is at last only different kinds of coin of the same metal."

"Well, hush your impudence," said Bernard, "and mind, not a word of what you have heard, or you shall feel my power as well as others. In the meantime, here is a golden key to lock your lips," and he handed the fellow a sovereign, which he greedily accepted.

"Thank you, Cap'n," said Holliday, touching his hat and pocketing the money; "you need not be afraid of me, for I've seen tricks in my time worth two of that. And for the matter of taking this yellow boy, which might look to some like hush-money, the only difference between the patriot and me is, that he gets paid for opening his mouth, and I for keeping mine shut."

"You are a saucy knave," said Bernard, rea.s.sured by the fellow's manner; "and I'll warrant you never served under old Noll's Puritan standard.

But away with you, and remember to be in place at ten o'clock to-night, and come to me at this signal," and he gave a shrill whistle, which Holliday promised to understand and obey.

And so they separated, Bernard to while away the tedious hours, by conversing with the old Colonel, and by endeavouring to reinstate himself in the good opinion of Virginia, while Holliday repaired to the kitchen, where, in company with his comrades and the white servants of the hall, he emptied about a half gallon of brown October ale.

CHAPTER XLII.

"He sat her on a milk-white steed, And himself upon a grey; He never turned his face again, But he bore her quite away."

_The Knight of the Burning Pestle._

"Oh, woe is me for Gerrard! I have brought Confusion on the n.o.blest gentleman That ever truly loved."

_The Triumph of Love._

The night, though only starry, was scarce less lovely for the absence of the moon. So bright indeed was the milky way, the white girdle, with which the night adorns her azure robe, that you might almost imagine the moon had not disappeared, but only melted and diffused itself in the milder radiance of that fair circlet.

As was always the custom in the country, the family had retired at an early hour, and Bernard quietly left the house to fulfil his engagement with Mamalis. They stood, he and the Indian girl, beneath the shade of the old oak, so often mentioned in the preceding pages. With his handsome Spanish cloak of dark velvet plush, thrown gracefully over his shoulders, his hat looped up and fastened in front with a gold b.u.t.ton, after the manner of the times, Alfred Bernard stood with folded arms, irresolute as to how he should commence a conversation so important, and requiring such delicate address. Mamalis stood before him, with that air of nameless but matchless grace so peculiar to those, who unconstrained by the arts and affectations of society, a.s.sume the att.i.tude of ease and beauty which nature can alone suggest. She watched him with a look of eagerness, anxious on her part for the silence to be broken, that she might learn the meaning and the object of this strange interview.

Alfred Bernard was too skillful an intriguer to broach abruptly the subject which, most absorbed his thoughts, and which had made him seek this interview, and when at last he spoke, Mamalis was at a loss to guess what there was in the commonplaces which he used, that could be of interest to him. But the wily hypocrite led her on step by step, until gradually and almost unconsciously to herself he had fully developed his wishes.

"You live here altogether, now, do you not?" he asked, kindly.

"Yes."

"Are they kind to you?"

"Oh yes, they are kind to all."

"And you are happy?"

"Yes, as happy as those can be who are left alone on earth."

"What! are there none of your family now living?"

"No, no!" she replied, bitterly; "the blood of Powhatan now runs in this narrow channel," and she held out her graceful arms, as she spoke, with an expressive gesture.

"Alas! I pity you," said Bernard, sighing. "We are alike in this-for my blood is reduced to as narrow a channel as your own. But your family was very numerous?"

"Yes, numerous as those stars-and bright and beautiful as they."

"Judging from the only Pleiad that remains," thought Bernard, "you may well say so-and can you," he added, aloud, "forgive those who have thus injured you?"

"Forgive, oh yes, or how shall I be forgiven! Look at those stars! They s.h.i.+ne the glory of the night. They vanish before the sun of the morning.

So faded my people before the arms of the white man-and yet I can freely forgive them all!"

"What, even those who have quenched those stars!" said Bernard, with a sinister meaning in his tone.

"You mistake," replied Mamalis, touchingly. "They are not quenched. The stars we see to-night, though unseen on the morrow, are still in heaven."

"Nay, Mamalis," said Bernard, "the creed of your fathers taught not thus. I thought the Indian maxim was that blood alone could wipe out the stain of blood."

"I love the Christian lesson better," said Mamalis, softly. "And you, Mr. Bernard, should not try to shake my new born faith. 'Love your enemies-bless them that curse you-pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you-that you may be the children of your Father which is in heaven.' The orphan girl on earth would love to be the child of her father in heaven."

The sweet simplicity with which the poor girl thus referred to the precepts and promises of her new religion, derived more touching beauty from the broken English with which she expressed them. An attempt to describe her manner and accent would be futile, and would detract from the simple dignity and sweetness with which she uttered the words. We leave the reader from his own imagination to fill up the picture which we can only draw in outline. Bernard saw and felt the power of religion in the heart of this poor savage, and he hesitated what course he should pursue. He knew that her strongest feeling in life had been her affection for her brother. That had been the chord which earliest vibrated in her heart, and which as her heart expanded only increased in tension that added greater sweetness to its tone. It was on this broken string, so rudely snapped asunder, that he resolved to play-hoping thus to strike some harsh and discordant notes in her gentle heart.

"You had a brother, Mamalis," he said, abruptly; "the voice of your brother's blood calls to you from the ground."

"My brother!" shrieked the girl, startled by the suddenness of the allusion.

"Aye, your murdered brother," said Bernard, marking with pleasure the effect he had produced, "and it is in your power to avenge his death.

Dare you do it?"

"Oh, my brother, my poor lost brother," she sobbed, the stoical indifference of the savage, pressed out by the crushed heart of the sister, "if by this hand thy death could be avenged."